The grand ballroom doors swung open, and an expectant hush swept through the gathered crowd, silencing the once lively murmurs and measured footsteps. Arcturus Prince entered first, his presence commanding; his robes, marred with scorch marks, hinted at the peril he had just escaped. His cane clicked rhythmically against the polished marble floor, each tap resonating with an unyielding resolve—as if fire, bloodshed, and death were mere shadows that could not touch him. Close behind him strode Lorenzo Zabini, his expression grim and resolute, flanked by the ever-watchful Ricci. The orchestra, sensing the gravity of the moment, allowed their bowstrings to fall silent, the instruments resting in reverent stillness.
"This attack was not merely aimed at Prince blood," Arcturus announced, his voice cutting through the quiet like tempered steel, clear and unwavering. "It was an assault on American soil itself. An affront to our neutrality. A threat to every guest present who believed themselves beyond harm's reach."
A wave of whispered unease rippled through the room—tense, urgent, and edged with fear. Lady Greengrass tightened her shawl around her shoulders as if to shield herself from the unsettling truth. Lord Patil's jaw clenched with mounting anger, his gaze fixed forward. The Davis family instinctively leaned closer together, their eyes flickering nervously toward the enchanted windows where the eerie, green glow of the Dark Mark still shimmered ominously over the manor's facade.
With a decisive strike, Arcturus's cane met the stone floor, punctuating his words with iron conviction. "Make no mistake—this was Voldemort's message made clear: there is no middle ground. Tonight, he proclaimed that fence-sitters are enemies. Tonight, he declared open war—not only on Britain but on every family here that cherishes independence and freedom."
Lorenzo Zabini stepped forward, his voice smooth yet weighted like a heavy anvil striking steel. "The Zabinis will never bow. We stand united with the Princes, with the Shafiqs, and with every house gathered here who refuses to have Voldemort dictate their fates."
It was enough. Lord Greengrass rose to his feet, his voice steady despite the ashen pallor that had settled over his face. "Greengrass stands with Prince and Shafiq," he declared, unwavering.
"The Patils as well," Lord Patil added, his tone resolute, while his wife gripped his arm tightly, a silent show of support and determination.
"The Davises," Lord Davis said firmly, though the tremor in his voice betrayed the storm of emotions beneath his composure.
One by one, other voices joined the chorus—quiet at first, then growing stronger. An oath was sworn, not through formal ritual, but forged in the crucible of necessity, a bond sealed by shared fear and the fury of the moment.
Above them, the mark still smoldered ominously in the sky, but beneath it, the murmurs carried something Voldemort had never anticipated: a fierce and unbreakable unity.
In a dimly lit side chamber adjoining the great hall, Severus sat shirtless on a low wooden bench, his body tense but still as Jonas and another healer meticulously tended to his wounds. The dried blood crusted the blackened skin of his wand hand, contrasting starkly with the pale flesh beneath. His sleeve hung in shreds where a curse had sliced deep enough to reach the bone. Despite the severity of the injury, Severus barely seemed to register the pain.
"You're lucky this didn't take your arm," Jonas muttered, carefully dabbing the wound with a healing salve made from dittany.
"Luck had little to do with it," Severus replied flatly, his voice steady but carrying an edge of quiet defiance.
Around him, his friends lingered, their presence a mixture of worry and tension. Alessandro paced restlessly like a caged wolf, his fists clenched tightly with each determined stride. "Mercenaries and werewolves, right in your garden. In your garden. This wasn't just an attack—it was a declaration. They will come again," he warned with a grim certainty.
Evie sat motionless on a nearby chair, her pale fingers nervously twisting the fabric of her skirts, her wide eyes still haunted by the brutal carnage they had witnessed. "So much blood..." she whispered, voice trembling.
Ben leaned casually against the wall, a streak of blood marring his cheek, yet a wide, almost reckless grin split his face. "Good. Let them come again. I'd like another round," he said, eagerness flickering in his eyes.
Aurora and Kiera exchanged brief, uneasy glances. Silence hung heavy between them, a flicker of unease darkening their expressions. They had seen Severus duel many times before, but tonight had not been a mere duel. Tonight had been something far worse—raw, savage butchery.
The door swung open, and Eileen rushed in, her usual composed demeanor at Prince Manor replaced by raw emotion. Her hands trembled as she gently cradled her son's face, her eyes shimmering with relief and unshed tears. She pulled him into a tight embrace, her voice barely more than a whisper but charged with intensity: "Don't you ever—ever—do that to me again."
Severus stood frozen for a moment, then slowly allowed himself to return the hug, brief but steadying, as though grounding himself in the familiar comfort of his mother's presence.
When she finally drew back, the mask of composed poise she wore so well had snapped deliberately back into place, concealing the turmoil beneath.
Arcturus entered last, his sharp eyes scanning the room before settling coldly on Severus. His tone was harsh and unsparing, completely devoid of sympathy. "You killed more tonight than some Aurors do in a lifetime. And every family here will remember it."
Severus remained silent. His gaze dropped to his bloodied hand, fingers flexing slowly as the weight of the night pressed on him. He hadn't merely dueled tonight. This was no game of skill, no fight for points or strategy. He had slaughtered. And he had done so without a single flicker of hesitation.
From the shadowed corner of the chamber, partially concealed by the heavy doorframe, Isadora Zabini observed intently. She had witnessed Severus fight before—always controlled, sharp, and precise. But tonight was different. Tonight, he hadn't merely defended himself or his kin; he had commanded the battle. Every movement radiated the unshakable certainty of someone convinced of his authority to decide who lived and who perished.
To Isadora, these were not the actions of a frightened boy protecting family. This was a young lord asserting his dominion over the chaos.
She knew Lorenzo would report everything to Vittorio—the battlefield's grim tableau, the ruthless slaughter, the boy who had fought with the strength and resolve of a seasoned warrior. Vittorio would grasp both the grave danger Severus represented and the immense potential he possessed.
But for Isadora herself, there was no doubt or hesitation. Her interest honed, as sharp and precise as the edge of a finely crafted blade. Severus Shafiq was no longer the distant prodigy she had observed from afar. He was now a weapon—one she could skillfully wield if she played her hand right, or one perilous enough to cut her deeply if mishandled.
In the dimly lit Malfoy townhouse in London, the firelight flickered softly across Narcissa Black's pale face as Lucius stood nearby, his tone measured yet tense as he relayed the grim news. "Over forty men. Werewolves among them. And still, they failed." Though his voice remained cold and controlled, the subtle clenching of his jaw betrayed the severity of the situation.
Narcissa absently turned the goblet of deep red wine in her slender hands, eyes fixed on the swirling crimson liquid. Her thoughts drifted to Severus Shafiq. She recalled his quiet arrogance, the way he refused to conform to the role she had anticipated for him. She had once judged him brilliant yet unmoored—a young man who would flare brilliantly, then quickly fade into darkness.
But she had been wrong.
Voldemort had marked him for death, yet Severus had survived against all odds. In surviving, he had grown far more dangerous, his power and resolve sharpened by the trials he faced.
Narcissa placed the goblet down with deliberate care, catching her own reflection shimmering in the silver rim. Dangerous—and undeniably tempting. A surge of intrigue stirred within her, perhaps even a hint of reckless fascination.
In the shadowed depths of his hidden lair, Voldemort's voice was a chilling blend of silk and venom, each word dripping with contempt.
"You disappoint me," he hissed sharply.
The Death Eater who had delivered the grim report visibly trembled, his voice faltering as he stammered out weak apologies. Suddenly, a scream tore through the silence—harsh and final—before the body crumpled silently onto the cold stone floor.
Voldemort loomed over the fallen figure, his pale, long fingers flexing involuntarily, his scarlet eyes blazing with uncontained fury. "The boy believes himself to be like fire. I will reduce him to ash."
He had dispatched forty-five killers to end the boy's life. All had been brutally slaughtered. Even worse, Severus Shafiq's survival had become a symbol, a rallying point. Whispered stories among neutral families spoke of the boy who stood defiant and alive against Voldemort's terror. It was not a fracture in Voldemort's power—it threatened, instead, to harden their resolve.
That, above all, was intolerable.
Still, Voldemort was far from reckless. To escalate matters on American soil now would inevitably draw the International Confederation of Wizards and the American Ministry into direct conflict with him. That was a risk he could not afford—not at this fragile stage of his rise.
So, with a calculated coldness, he redirected his gaze across the ocean, toward Britain. The Isles would be his opening salvo. From there, he would spread his dominion across Europe. And when the time was right—when the world was primed for his devastation—he would burn the boy and all who dared to stand with him to ash.
Atop the Astronomy Tower at Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore slowly lowered the letter he had just received, his fingers trembling slightly despite his composed exterior. The news had arrived swiftly, carried through channels far more dependable than the usual owl post—a testament to the urgency and gravity of its contents.
Severus Shafiq had not only survived Voldemort's brutal strike but had done so with unimaginable ferocity, cutting down forty-five attackers in a merciless display of skill and willpower. The young man had endured what few could, emerging from the bloodied battlefield alive and unbroken.
Dumbledore's deep blue eyes, usually warm and twinkling with mirth, were now grave and heavy as they swept across the distant horizon, lost in troubled thought. Severus was too young to wield such deadly power with ease, too cunning to submit to anyone's command, and far too dangerous to dismiss or underestimate.
Once, he might have been gently guided—molded into a beacon of hope and light. But under the influence of Arcturus and bolstered by the unwavering loyalty of Zabini's fierce supporters, Severus was evolving into something altogether different. Something darker, more elusive, something beyond Dumbledore's reach or understanding.
Clasping his hands firmly behind his back, Dumbledore's gaze lifted to the stars wheeling silently overhead, their cold indifference a stark contrast to the turmoil within him. "One day, Severus," he murmured softly to the empty night around him, "one day we must speak. Whether as allies… or as enemies."
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